There has been a spate of articles, most recently an 18-page section in today’s Sunday New York Times, about the impact the pandemic has had on mothers in the U.S. Over four million jobs held by women lost since March. A 700% increase in calls to the crisis hotline for working parents at the Center for WorkLife Law. Women are working at the kitchen table while overseeing zoom school; they are also working in the closet, stealing a few quiet moments in the stairwell, and juggling screaming children, nursing babies, feelings of anxiety, depression, overwhelming loss and inadequacy to the task. There is a lack of child care, closed schools, no grandparents available to help because of Covid. Lost wages, lost time, lost senses of self, lost everything.
And while I have worried about my friends with young children, trapped a maelstrom not of their making with no clear end in sight, I have also been breathing tiny sighs of relief that my children are older and that their pandemic needs are different. Their mental health has been my biggest worry, and while that is a big worry, it is not a 24/7 occupation.
But I’m also completely triggered by these stories, because the tale of a working mother during the pandemic mirrors my own experience as a caregiver just five short years ago.
It took me a long time to recognize that my husband’s illness and death were not the only pieces of the grief puzzle I needed to process and learn to incorporate into my life moving forward. Perhaps even larger was the trauma of my year of being his caregiver – a non-stop 54 weeks during which time I was responsible for every move he made and every need he had, while also managing my three children’s fear and sadness and school and life events, maintaining our house, dealing with all the emotional labor of a family and also being tossed into the role, overnight, of becoming the sole wage-earner and continuing to work at my full-time job.
My husband was physically incapacitated from the beginning of his illness; a mangled shoulder, caused by his first seizure, not only created a huge diversion from the tumor rapidly growing in his brain but also set off a cascade of physical ailments that required a wheelchair from the moment he left the hospital, as well as two surgeries, six months of rehab and physical therapy and a stubborn patient’s fixation on healing the part of his body over which he had some control. He spent the first six months of his final year in a state of believing that if he could only conquer the shoulder everything would be ok.
For the first month, when he was still in the hospital, I was on sentry duty for 15-hour days as I needed to be his case worker. I was interlocutor between the various doctors – none of whom talked to each other – gatekeeper to phone calls and visitors, decision maker, surgery scheduler and comforter-in-chief to everyone around me.
Once he came home, the burden exploded. I procured and dosed all his medications, scheduled and took him to six weeks of daily radiation therapy, got him to PT, scheduled conference calls with doctors, dealt with all the paperwork involved with social security and his job and healthcare, got him up every morning, helped him shower and get dressed and come downstairs, make many meals a day to manage his steroid-induced appetite, was on call through every night to help him get to the bathroom, took him to doctor’s appointments and managed each new challenge, including the onset of diabetes where I had to prick his tender skin every day, blood clots that almost killed him, sleep issues where we had to go to a sleep center overnight in the hospital, and on top of everything else attend to his anxiety, his depression, his sadness and his fear. By the end, I had to work with hospice, get the hospital bed installed, pick out his funeral plot and be the one who would gradually increase the morphine dosage, at his request, to help nature accelerate its course.
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